Receive
by lackadaisical meandering
Summary: Returning the Winter Soldier to Bucky Barnes is a journey that begins with an orange cat named Hamilton.


_Part One—Return_

"_Winter is not a season, it's an occupation."_

—_Sinclair Lewis_

"Do you think its safe to head home?" questioned Joanna Hersch, glancing over at her friend, Liz, whose couch she was currently camped out on. After the Castle—the Smithsonian Institute building—had closed early and quite unexpectedly, Liz had insisted Joanna come back to her loft with her, which was much closer to their work than Joanna's apartment. At the time, they didn't know what had happened less than a half mile from them, as they guided tours around the museum, but they both knew that if the Smithsonian was closing, something was seriously wrong.

That was some four hours ago and since, the two girls had paid rapt attention to the little television at Liz's kitchen counter, not even bothering to move from their seats to retrieve more iced tea or another snack.

Liz didn't reply immediately, instead just staring at the image that the news station kept flashing. The Potomac River—just two miles away from Liz's apartment—with the great, smoking wreckage of some kind of flying aircraft carrier at its center. "Its strange," she began.

Joanna waited a long moment for her friend to continue, but, when she didn't, she prodded, "What's strange?"

"This," she gestured to the screen, the image still there, now shown from an aerial advantage. "It seemed so detached when New York was attacked; like it was some bad science fiction drama. Even now it seems so surreal but this is just outside the window." She now made a vague gesture to one of her apartment's windows.

Joanna shook her head. "It seems like once all these costume wearing weirdos appeared, the world has gone straight to hell."

This seemed to cheer Liz, if only slightly. "Oh please," she teased, though without her usual vivacity. "Don't deny you're completely obsessed with Captain America."

"I admire him for his actions during World War II; he was great war hero," Joanna replied almost automatically; the two had gotten to the point where they simply were accustomed to every oddity and quirk of the other. Typically, Joanna knew Liz to take great amusement in teasing her about her fondness for the star spangled super soldier and Joanna had a ready reply every time.

"Sure," Liz replied, none of the usual sarcastic punctuating her voice, her attention drawn back to the television screen. It now showed EMTs rushing across the badly damaged bridge that led to the tower at the Potomac's center—which was labeled as S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, though neither girl could guess what that stood for—and emerging with severely burned and bloodied people in business suits. "Jesus," she muttered.

"Do you think its safe to go home?" Joanna asked again after a long moment. She didn't want to leave; one didn't just _leave_ when something like _this_ was on the news, but she needed to get home. She needed to make sure her apartment was still there and her cat was all right. (She fully realized how pathetic she sounded and she had every intention of not mentioning this to Liz, who'd surely tease her at a later date. When things weren't quite what they are now.)

Liz glanced away from the television screen long enough to give Joanna a hard look. "I don't think so, Jo. Don't you see what's going on right now?!"

Joanna sighed. "I know, I know. That's why I want to get home. I feel like I should be home."

That made Liz pause and Joanna knew that Liz agreed. "I know what you mean," she finally conceded after a long moment, thought the deep frown on her face spoke of her resentment at her words. "But you have to text me as you go so I know you're okay."

"I'll have to call when I get home," Joanna replied, fishing her phone from her purse as proof. "I forgot to charge my phone last night and it died while we were watching the news."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Liz demanded rhetorically before she shook her head slightly and said, "Fine! Call me when you get home _but_ if you don't call within the next thirty minutes, I'm calling the cops to come find you."

"Yeah, okay," agreed Joanna, smiling slightly at Liz as she rolled her eyes in exasperation. She appreciated her friend's concern for her, which she knew came with being the eldest of five sisters.

Liz pursed her lips. "Alright, I'll talk to you soon then." With a wave and a quick hug, Joanna had snatched up her sweater and purse from where they had been flung over the sofa's armrest, making a quick exit from her friend's apartment before she could insist on calling a taxi. Liz's apartment was on the third floor of the building, making the walk down the staircase a short one, and soon Joanna was hurrying along the sidewalk pavement.

It was nearing five o'clock, which was typically rush hour in downtown D.C., with cars lined bumper-to-bumper, businessmen and politicians alike vying down the sidewalks, and the occasional suicide bicyclists swerving on and off the roads. Today, the streets were relatively deserted. Pedestrians still hurried by, taxicabs still rumbled along, but comparatively, it was astonishingly empty. The city seemed to have slowed to a trickle.

Joanna shuddered slightly, ill at ease with the sound of her footsteps echoing off the buildings. She suddenly was struck with the strong urge to turn around, to run back to Liz's apartment. Her spine crawled with tension and she worried her lip. But then, she really _did _need to get home, she reminded herself, and her apartment wasn't all that far away. Just two more blocks, four flights of stairs, and she'd be safe with her cat, Hamilton.

As she rounded the corner onto 4th Street, she paused, her eyes alighting on a curious sight in the alleyway across the road. It appeared to be a man with grizzled hair and tattered black clothing. The pavement around him was coated in dried blood and he lay motionless on the ground. Joanna took a hesitant step towards the street, reeling back hurriedly as a taxi zoomed past, horn blaring. She took a moment to worry her lip further before she dug in her purse for her pepper spray, resolutely crossing the street when the traffic light flashed to red.

On closer inspection his clothing seemed to be some kind of leather armor and his left arm seemed to plated titanium. Joanna quirked an eyebrow; was he one of those LARPers that her younger brother was telling her about? His attire seemed about right but the gash in his right shoulder, an angry red against the darkness of the clothing, didn't seem like a customary part of live action role-playing. And anyway, what would a LARP person be doing lying in the middle of an alleyway?

She blinked at him for a moment before instinctually beginning to dig in her purse for her phone, only to recall that it was completely with out batteries. She puffed out her cheeks, staring down at the unconscious man, pepper spray still in hand. All the while, Joanna continued worrying her lip. She had a few options: try to find someone with a phone and call the police, carry the guy home with her to call from her landline, or leave him and run home to call.

She didn't like the idea of leaving the man lying in a somewhat suspicious alleyway, even if she lived just down the street. She could vaguely recall from a high school health class that it was extremely irresponsible to leave an injured people unattended.

Glancing around, Joanna saw that the nearest pedestrian was across the street and half way down the block, their retreating back growing more miniscule by the second. She puffed out a sigh again. It seemed she only had one choice.

Bending down, pepper spray at the ready in case the man was actually lying in waiting to attack her—one was never too cautious on the streets of the city—she managed to wrap his left arm around her neck, hefting him up from the pavement. With a yelp of surprise, she staggered under his weight for only one moment before buckling her knees, standing upright. One arm around his middle and the other with the pepper spray, Joanna half dragged, half carried the man down the street. The usual brisk walk from the corner to her apartment building was made arduous with his weight, the expanse of sidewalk seeming to stretch on into infinity.

Finally, wheezing, she pulled him into lobby of her building, blessing her foresight for renting an apartment in a building with an elevator. As she waited for the elevator to come down to ground level, the man deposited on the floor, one of the neighbors on her floor came trotting down the stairs, pausing in shock at the sight that greeted him. "Hey Jo—what the hell?" he asked.

"Oh, hey Lukas, how are you?" Joanna replied with a smile, attempting to be casual to avoid the awkwardness that was sure to accompany the sight of a wounded man crumpled at her feet.

"Uh, I'm okay," he replied, distractedly, his eyes fixed on the prone man on the wooden floor. "What are you doing? Whose your friend?"

"I found him passed out down the street, in the alley behind Kelly's Bakery," she replied, deciding to forfeit any attempts at being nonchalant, seeing as the situation was unavoidably awkward.

"Have you called an ambulance?" Lukas replied, now squatting down to get a better look at the man.

"My cell is dead. I was going to use my landline in my apartment and then settle him on my couch." She frowned, "I get the feeling all the ambulances are a little busy, we might have to wait." Lukas' face darkened at the mention of the events on news, obviously having been watching them unfold himself.

"Well, I'll help you get him up to your place," Lukas replied as the elevator doors opened with a bright 'ding' and the two helped to carry the unconscious man into the elevator, Lukas pushing the button for the fourth floor. "Jesus," he said as the doors slid shut once more, staring down at the man. "What is he _wearing_?"

"I think its LARP gear," replied Joanna with a shrug. Lukas raised a silent eyebrow at her but she only huffed a sigh and shrugged; she wasn't much in the mood to explain the concept of live action role-playing at that very moment which wasn't to imply she was _ever_ in the mood to explain such things.

When they reached their floor, it was with no small amount of squirming and cursing that Joanna managed to extract her keys from her purse, opening her front door and flicking the lights on. Joanna's modest but, if she may say so, tastefully decorated apartment was suddenly illuminated, a tubby orange tabby cat blinking at them from his seat in the kitchen windowsill.

After the unconscious man was settled onto the couch, Hamilton sprang from the windowsill and, moving with rapidness that Joanna hadn't seen from him since he was a kitten, sprang onto the couch. He settled himself onto the unconscious man's chest. Lukas stared in ever increasing shock. "Well, what do you know, your demon cat actually likes someone."

"Shut up, Lukas," Joanna replied with a glare.

"Shutting up!" Lukas immediately said before asking, "Do you have a first aid kit?"

"Uh," Joanna replied, frowning in thought. Lukas only sighed, shaking his head, mumbling about being right back, before he disappeared the way they had come, presumably to fetch a first aid kit from his apartment across the hall. Her apartment door sluggishly clicked shut behind him.

Hanging her purse on its peg, Jo picked up the landline phone, punching the numbers 9-1-1 into the keypad and pressing the device to her ear, worrying her lip again. She really needed to get out of the habit but, with the current predicament, it didn't seem like the right time.

There was click on the other end of the line. "Hello, 9-1-1, what's your emergency?" a calm, female voice asked.

"Hello, yes, I found a man unconscious in the street and he's severely injured. I think he stopped bleeding but I'm pretty sure he was involved in that big explosion over the Potomac and—"

"Hang up the phone," a low voice behind her rumbled. For the second time in the past fifteen minutes, Joanna's blood ran cold and, this time, it wasn't because of paranoia. Every muscle in her body tensed, her back straightening instinctually to reduce contact with the sudden, sharp pressure there.

"Ma'am?" the woman on the phone questioned.

"Uh," Joanna replied to both the decidedly masculine voice behind her and the emergency worker on the phone.

"_Hang up the phone,"_ this time, the voice behind her was a sharp hiss and the pressure in her back sharpened into an acute pain; it was, without a doubt, a dagger. Joanna gulped; sweat beginning to bead on her brow.

"Ma'am, are you still there? Are you okay?" the woman on the phone asked again, her voice becoming urgent.

With trembling fingers, Joanna moved the phone away from her ear, clicking the 'end' button.

"Good," the voice said, the dagger moving away from her back. There was a heavy silence, Joanna's breath seeming to be thunderous to her ears, before she dared to slowly turn and glance, eyes rounded with fear, over her shoulder.

There was a knock on her door. "Joanna?" Lukas' voice called through the door. "I have the first aid kit!"

Taking a steadying breath, Joanna wiped her sweating palms against her pant legs and hurried to answer the door. "I don't think we're going to need that aid kit, Lukas," Joanna said in way of greeting.

Lukas' eyes rounded in fear. "He's not dead, is he?" he questioned before looking past Joanna's shoulder, finding no man on the couch and the living room window, the one overlooking the street with a sheer drop below it, wide open. "Where is he?"

Joanna just shook her head.

* * *

"It was strange," Joanna was concluding the following day to Liz, the two friends taking the short walk along the mall towards the Air and Space Museum. They had tread the path so frequently, both often called over from the Castle to handle particularly large tour groups, they barely had to watch where they were walking. "He must have jumped out of the open window but there was no sign of him."

"I can't believe you, Jo!" was Liz's immediate reaction. "A man that you saved _off the streets_, of all things, held a knife to your back when you were trying to get him help and you only say that 'it was strange'? It's goddamn fucked up and you're an idiot for letting him into your apartment in the first place!"

"Calm down, Liz, he was bleeding to death in an alleyway!" Joanna replied, suddenly defensive. She'd be the first to admit that none of her actions of the previous evening were what she'd call 'logical,' but she wouldn't admit that to Liz; Liz, who was as overprotective as a mother bear and much more likely to berate her for weeks on end than any bear was.

"You know, I thought I saw something on the news about a man involved in that big explosion yesterday; a man in black armor that supposedly is a master assassin," Liz continued, undeterred by Joanna's protests. "I bet you that's who the man was!"

"I mean, yeah, he was badly injured and it would make sense that he was involved in the incident somehow, but none of that leads to the conclusion that he's a master assassin!" Joanna replied, shaking her head. Bing a master assassin would certainly explain the black leather and titanium armor. She decided not to mention that to Liz.

Liz only sent a scowl to her as the two pushed through the doors of the Air and Space Museum, immediately going towards the main offices to receive their tour assignments for the duration of the morning.

Joanna, who had grown up outside of Richmond, had often spent many a field trip in that very museum. It had been her favorite when she was little, her head always swimming with stories of Amelia Earhart, who she was convinced was still alive somewhere in the Pacific Ocean—and would one day teach her how to fly a plane. She supposed that had been her first real love: flying. It was a short lived love, when she found that she got air sick and she much preferred the tales of the great aviators from the early years of human flight. That had all been before fifth grade—and the American Revolution, which now was the very heart of all her obsessions and her job over at the Castle—but it still felt like visiting an old friend whenever she was called across the mall to conduct a tour.

Receiving the name of the school that was visiting—she could have kissed the tour coordinator when she saw it was a fifth grade class, and thus less likely to mouth off—Joanna waved goodbye to Liz, going to the lobby of the museum to await the arrival of her young charges. It wasn't long before the group arrived, the teacher already looking harried as her grip tightened around the shoulder of two troublesome twins.

"Good morning! My name is Joanna and I'll be your guide around the Air and Space Museum today!" Joanna greeted, using her friendliest voice, striving for clarity over the low rumble of the other tourists in the museum. "So, we have a lot to see and do today, and, as a treat to start off the day right, we're going to start with my favorite exhibit—Captain America!" At this announcement, the children, even the ones who were more interested in tugging one another's hair or playing on their phones—Joanna tried to restrain her looks of disapproval of fifth grade children having smart phones—all cheered and chattered in excitement. Their teacher gave her a grateful look.

"Alright, before we head up the escalators, can someone tell me what Captain America's real name is?" Joanna asked, knowing she was smiling much too bright. Despite all of Liz's teasing, she really _did_ have a bit of a crush on Captain America.

One of the twins, who the teacher still held by the shoulder, shot his hand into the air, waving it around like mad. "Oh, oh, I know!"

"Yes?" Joanna prompted, gesturing towards him to answer.

"Steve Rogers!" proclaimed the boy, puffing out his chest. He glanced down at his jacket briefly before frowning and unzipping it, revealing the Captain's trademark red, white and blue shield designed onto the light blue tee shirt.

"That's right! And nice shirt," Joanna said, smiling at the little boy before saying, "Alright, everyone hold onto the railings as we go up the escalator." She led the troupe of fifth graders up to the second floor, leading them across the landing of the museum and directly into their most popular exhibit: the Super Soldier exhibit.

They heard about Steve Roger's amazing growth from Brooklyn boy to American icon—"He gained over twelve inches—wow indeed!"—saw the genuine uniforms of the Howling Commandos—"No, you may _not_ touch that!"—and all the kids insisted on taking pictures with the Captain's motorcycle replica. Joanna smiled all the while, laughing at the children's antics and enjoying their enthusiasm. She knew they were just excited to see memorabilia—"Wow, the Captain _actually _touched this!"—and not truly enthused by the history they were learning, but that did little to deter her. She had started with an obsession with Amelia Earhart, which turned into a love for history, itself. If she could spread the wonderment of studying the past through teaching kids about another one of her heroes, than she counted that as a victory.

During the four minute movie on the evil Nazi science division—Hydra—Joanna wandered away from the small bench area, knowing the teacher was more than capable of looking after her class. She stopped in front of her favorite part of the exhibit. It was by far the simplest, the most understated. Rarely did anyone pause in front of it for very long, it being just a picture and a plaque serving as a memorial to the man that was Steve Roger's friend before he became the super soldier, when he was just a scrawny kid.

James Buchanan Barnes; "Bucky" for short. He was named after one of, possibly, the worst presidents the United States had ever seen but Joanna didn't hold that against him. She stared at his charming smile; his eyes crinkled in amusement, and couldn't help but smile back at him. She always did.

It wasn't because of his handsome face—though he was certainly attractive—or his heroic actions during the war that Joanna always made a point of stopping to pay tribute to the all-too-often forgotten hero. Rather, it was because she knew what it meant to be a friend through thick and thin, and for that, Bucky was of equal hero status to the gloriously handsome Captain America.

Drawing her attention away from the picture of Barnes, Joanna's gaze was caught by a young man that stood on the other side of the memorial. His ragged hair was stuffed under a ball cap but there was no denying who the man was. Her mind had only just processed this when her eyes perceived something of, perhaps, infinite more importance. She supposed it must have been the setting sun providing diminishing light or her mind being too focused on the task at hand, but the day prior, she had taken little note of face of the young man she had 'rescued.'

Yet, staring at him now, dressed in ill-fitting clothes that must have been bought at Goodwill without looking at the sizes, she could hardly believe her eyes. There was a darkness that hooded his eyes and a frown curved down the mouth that grinned in the photo that stared back at him, but there was no mistaking him.

It seemed that he caught sight of her mere seconds after she saw him. A single dark brow rose in silence question of her, his eyes showing no sign of recognition, before his mouth formed a line and he blinked. In that simple, almost nonexistent, facial change, she knew he recognized her.

Before she had time to think, she had one of her business cards out of her breast pocket and was closing the distance between them. "Here," she said, holding the card out to him. "Take this, if you ever need my help. I'm good at rescuing people."

He stared at the business card offered between the tips of her fingers. It was a moment that stretched on for hours; her heart pounded in her ears, her thoughts screamed at her in mortification, and, all the while, his dark, fathomless eyes were boring into her. Slowly, so painfully slowly, he raised a large, calloused hand, taking the card from her hand.

She offered him a smile before a shrill scream that could be nothing other than a herd of fifth graders rang out from before her. Joanna only spared one moment before she was moving away, as quickly as she had been spurred to move towards him.

After guiding the fifth graders onward, into the icy room that simulated the Captain's time frozen in Antarctica, she dared to glance over her shoulder. But there was no sign of him ever having stood there, eyes watery, before the memorial dedicated to him: Bucky Barnes.

* * *

Liz, who was a self-described 'foodie', snagged Joanna as soon as she waved goodbye to her fifth graders, the children thanking "Miss Jo" as they went, the blond woman saying, "We have two hours before my next tour starts and I vote we go to that fabulous little café on Maryland Avenue."

"Isn't that where you nearly got that senator's number?" asked Joanna, quirking an eyebrow at her friend. Liz was an oxymoron unto herself; by her appearance, she was nothing short of a blond bombshell, with curves and flawless golden ringlets, comfortable with flirting with any man who caught her eye. Yet, in the same instance, she loved old transcripts and faded ink and the smell of parchment.

"He was a state representative and _gorgeous," _Liz replied with a shrug and a grin. "But, he turned out to be married, which does explain why he dressed so well."

"Wasn't your theory that he was gay?" Joanna asked, laughing at the memory. At the time, she was dying of mortification just due to her close proximity to Liz flirting with said state representative, but reflecting upon it, it was a rather comical scenario.

Liz shrugged, replying, "I never claimed to be right." As the two girls exited the mall, coming a halt at the intersection of Independence and 6th Street, Liz pulled her iPhone from her pocket, her eyebrows furrowing as she scrolled through her Twitter notifications. "Hey, check it out, Jo. Looks like there's been a massive government leak—like Wikileaks massive."

"What?" Joanna asked, rhetorically, peering around Liz's shoulder to look at her phone's glowing screen. The traffic light turned red and the pedestrian signal blinked on.

Liz stowed her phone as they crossed, replying to the question as they went, "Yeah, Twitter seems to have exploded about it. All sorts of spy secrets and shit; I have about fifty notifications all tagged with 'govleaks' on my feed."

"Do you think someone hacked into the government's database?" questioned Joanna, arching an eyebrow.

"I don't know but I bet this has something to do with what happened yesterday. It happened too quickly to not be related, you know? Too coincidental," Liz speculated.

Joanna shrugged in reply. Her world had revolved around events from over a hundred years ago and people long since dead for so long, that she had almost become immune to modern world events. The Potomac Incident, as Liz had referred to it only that morning, had only registered in her mind because it was unavoidable—only three miles from the front door of her apartment building. Government secrets being leaked onto the Internet hardly concerned her unless those secrets involved new information concerning 19th century, or prior, America.

Liz rolled her eyes at Joanna's apathy. "At least _try _to pretend you live in the twenty-first century, Jo!" she reprimanded lightly as the two girls filed into their destination—the café—and made quick business of ordering their lunches, managing to snag a table in the sunny little window.

As they sat, Liz scrolling through her Twitter and reading aloud tweets of interest—all concerning some government secret, most about the division known as Hydra, which Joanna thought had been eradicated with the end of World War II—Joanna's mind was elsewise occupied with trying to decide if she wanted to tell Liz about her peculiar meeting with the man she rescued. The man she was fairly sure was a ninety-five-year-old war hero, who had supposedly died from falling from a train and into a canyon.

She knew that she should tell Liz; she told Liz _everything._ Not that there was ever anything of excitement to tell her friend, but that hardly changed the fact that she knew Liz would tell her if something of _this_ importance happened to her. She felt obligated. But, the rebuke from that morning still stung, though Joanna knew it was done with the best intentions, and some strange feeling in her gut urged her to keep Bucky Barnes—or the man who looked _exactly_ like Bucky Barnes—to herself for the time being.

"Oh, Jo, listen to this: Soviet Union scientists discovered methods of brainwashing soldiers and manipulating them into becoming human weapons of destruction."

"Hey, Jo," called her manager and museum coordinator for the Castle, Todd Montessori, his voice preceding him into the stacks archive. Joanna glanced up from where she had been carefully studying a bundle of newly arrived, yellowing letters to see the graying man peering in through the door. "I'm locking things up for the evening, so make sure to just switch the lights off when you go."

"You got it, Mr. Montessori, I'll see you in the morning," Joanna replied, only half listening to him. More often than not, she spent the later part of her evenings alone in the archives, promising herself she'd head home _just after_ she analyzed that letter from a gold rush miner or finished preserving the ink on that vaudeville playbill. Typically, she would find herself leaving at ten or eleven, much to the annoyance of Hamilton, if only to catch the metro before it shut down for the night.

She spent most of her evenings in that same routine. Occasionally, Liz would drag her along to a club on the weekends, but that was only when Jo was looking especially pitiful.

Mr. Montessori wished her goodnight and the only sound thereafter was the far off closing of the heavy door marked with the menacing, "Employees Only" sign. Joanna hunched over the bundle of letters, already having gone through two of them and finding them to be bank notes.

She loved when small collections of letters, accounts, or records managed to find their way to the Smithsonian archives—and her. It was like receiving a tiny portion of someone's life, a package of memories or secrets. When she was alone, amongst the stacks, she would begin to think about the thousands of people the artifacts collected there represented and, with such items disregarded by so many, what remnants of a person's life would survive. Of what those remnants portrayed—kindness or evil? And, ultimately, would anyone care? Was it all, all the trials and challenges of life, worthwhile?

"You're only going to depress yourself," Joanna reminded herself aloud, as she often did when her thoughts began to spiral. She shook her head.

"What?" a deep, masculine voice questioned in the silence that settled.

Joanna nearly leapt out of her chair and, only later, would she realize how lucky she had been to _not_ damage the account ledger she was currently studying. But, for now, her necked painfully snapped her head up, her eyes widening at the sight of an all too familiar man sitting across the table from her. "What the hell!" she squawked, flailing for a moment in panic before her hands settled themselves on the edge of the table, gripping it with white-knuckled fear.

A tense silence fell over the stacks, Joanna staring at the man in fear, tremors shaking her frame, while the other stared blankly, calmly back. "I, uh," Joanna began after a moment, clearing her throat. "I didn't expect to see you here so…uh…_soon."_

"You did give me your card," he replied, his voice low. His comment wasn't a sarcastic quip, rather just an observation. She was shocked to hear him now; his voice, where it had been gravelly and menacing before, now, while still unfathomably deep, had a rich quality to it. The tone, flat from disuse, still held a slight hint of some long forgotten humor.

"That's true," nodded Joanna, worrying at her lip only a moment before adding, "I suppose I should say I didn't expect to see you here so soon and so _suddenly."_

He nodded simply. Silence fell again before he asked, "What's that?" He didn't need to make any indication for Joanna to know he spoke of the ledge before her.

"Oh, it's a banking account ledger. Or, at least, a page from one. It came in with a bundle of bank notes and the like," Joanna replied, relieved to speak of something so mundane in this extremely un-mundane situation. He nodded again, his face portraying neither interest nor disinterest. His expression was simply neutral. Joanna had heard the term 'blank faced' before, but never had she seen it so aptly applied in reality.

"So," Joanna began after another uncomfortable pause. "Why, exactly, are you here? And, uh, how?"

"You gave me your card," he reiterated.

Joanna waited only a moment but when it was clear that he was not going to enlighten her on how he had managed to sneak into the Castle archive stacks—though, admittedly, it wasn't exactly at a high level of security—or sat down across from her without drawing her attention, she said, "Well, you found me."

He nodded again and, for the first time, emotion was portrayed on his face. He seemed to be internally debating on whether or not to speak further and, it seems he decided in the affirmative, as he slowly began, "At the museum today, you seemed to recognize me. Why?"

'Other than being the guy I found, bleeding out in an alleyway, who threatened me at knife point and jumped out of my window when I tried to call the ambulance?' Joanna thought dryly, wisely deciding to keep such thoughts to herself. Instead, she replied, "Well, you're Bucky Barnes, Captain America's best friend."

"Captain America?" he questioned.

"Steve Rogers to you," amended Joanna. The man, who, for all intents and purposes, was Bucky Barnes, born in 1925 and still looking no older than twenty-seven in 2014, simply nodded to this. With an ordinary person, Joanna would have had the distinct impression that this would be the moment when their eyes would widen, the mouth would gape, and an exclamation of shock, surprise, and bafflement—possibly all three—would follow. Yet, she was already well aware of the fact that this man was anything _but_ ordinary. His metal arm, hidden under the bulky sweatshirt, was testimony enough to it.

"How is he alive?" was the next question, breaking the silence.

"Supposedly he was frozen in the snows of the North Pole," replied Joanna with a small shrug. "It seems far fetched to me. But, he was there to help stop the alien invasion of New York City, and that's really all anyone cares about."

A simple nod was all that she had in response to this. After a moment, Bucky stood from the chair opposite her, moving towards the door. Joanna watched him go, her brow furrowing as her eyes tracked his determined movement, and, for the second time that day, she acted before she thought, "Do you have a place to stay?" Bucky stopped abruptly, turning to stare at her in question. Backtracking hurriedly, her cheeks turning a deep red, she added, "I have a really large couch if you need a place to sleep."

Bucky seemed to consider her for the first time and Joanna was struck with the realization that him being there was not as a response to her offer of help given with the business card. He was there because he was a soldier and she was a source of information; he had collected what intelligence he needed to know for how to proceed in his current mission and now he could depart. She wasn't a person to him up until that moment, simply a resource.

When he didn't respond, just standing by the door, seeming to pry into her very soul with his calculating eyes, she fidgeted and offered, "I'm Joanna Hersch, by the way."

"I know," was his simple response before he had disappeared from the archive room and Joanna was left wondering when he had, exactly, opened the door to leave. Her eyes falling back on the account ledgers, she knew she wouldn't be getting any more work done that evening.

* * *

When Joanna flicked on her apartment's lights that evening, an overzealous orange tabby cat greeted her. Chuckling, she questioned of him, "What's up with you, Hamilton? You're usually not so happy to see me."

The cat meowed in response, blinking his round, owlish green eyes at her as he rubbed against her legs. Managing to dance around him to hang her purse on its peg and deposit her keys in the bowl on the counter, she scooped up the tabby. Cuddling him to her chest, she heaved a sigh, saying, "Oh, Hammy, you wouldn't _believe _the week I had. And its only Monday." Her phone buzzed from her purse and she plopped the cat down, digging to find it.

* * *

Sam Wilson, aviator sunglasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, stared down in wonderment at the new text message from Steve Rogers—_the _Captain America—who currently sat across from his at their tiny bistro table, dwarfed even more in comparison to Steve's bulk. Sam, who already despaired at Steve's complete incompetence with his phone despite knowing him for only four days, was in shock at the existence of the text message itself and then completely dumbfounded at its contents.

Then again, he never thought he'd be sitting in Moscow at a sidewalk bistro, seated across from _the _Captain America, in the midst of a manhunt for a former Soviet brainwashed assassin. He was in plenty shock from the whole situation but he preferred to focus on the immediate surreal experience of _Tony fucking Stark's_ number on his phone in an effort not to overwhelm himself.

"Dude, you just sent me _Tony Stark's_ _personal number_," Sam managed to choke out after a moment.

"Yeah, uh, don't prank call him?" Steve replied. He frowned as he took a sip of his cup of coffee, probably wondering if he used the correct terms. 'Of course he takes his coffee black,' Sam thought idly.

"Don't worry about that, my credit score would go to hell if I did," Sam replied, saving the contact to his phone, trying to contain the huge grin that was trying to fight its way onto his face.

Steve didn't seem to notice as he was too occupied with extracting something from his satchel. Sam called it his 'Indiana Jones purse,' which earned him a whack over the head; apparently Indiana Jones was one of the Cap's new favorite movies. Soon, Sam found a file sliding across the table, towards him. "What's this?" he asked, flipping the cover, labeled 'highly classified,' open.

"Natasha gave it to me," Steve replied, studying Sam's reaction to the file. Sam, for his part, nodded, remembering seeing the file before, but besides that was silent as he stared down at an old, black and white photo of Bucky Barnes. His face was unlined; his smile carefree, and there was no darkness haunting his eyes. It was the face of a man with his life ahead of him. The image was made painful knowing that, just six months after the date on the photo, that same young man would be captured, experimented on, and manipulated into a warped, distorted, and utterly unrecognizable version of himself.

"How was it not dumped onto the internet like the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. files?" Sam questioned, asking the obvious question instead of attempting to comment on the file itself, which no words that could describe.

"There was no electronic copy, only that file. And, as far as Fury knows, that's the only hard copy of it too," Steve replied. Sam made a low appreciative whistle at that, Steve nodding in agreement. "Natasha gave that to me knowing we want to find Bucky but its like grasping at straws." Sam grinned at the archaic analogy. "Nothing in the file suggests anything. He's a master of disguise and stealth. He could be in the middle of the Amazon right now, for all we know."

Sam refrained from pointing out that there was little point in flying all the way to Russia in an attempt to retrace Bucky's movements if the file gave them no hints.

It had only been two days since they had started their search. Fury had been reluctant to allow Captain America to leave the country—for _Russia_, of all places—so soon after the disastrous Potomac Incident, but Steve had insisted. So, booking two tickets with the S.H.I.E.L.D. business jet, they set out for Moscow, the city where Bucky was mutated into a super assassin.

Sam studied Steve from behind his sunglasses. He was nearing the point of obsession in trying to retrace Bucky's movements over the past seventy years and devoting a wall in their hotel to a world map, straight pins representing 'Bucky sightings.' Natasha had some hand in the creation of it, or at least, that's what Sam suspected. Yet, Sam couldn't fault Steve for it; if there were some way to bring Reilly back, he'd do whatever he could. But, he also knew that obsessing over trying to find someone, especially someone that increasingly seemed to not want to be found, would only lead to some very dark places.

"Listen, Steve, we have some of the best people helping look for him; I can't imagine a better search team then you, the Black Widow, Director Fury, and myself." Sam could not believe those works just came out of his mouth—the Black Widow and himself in one sentence, together. "And we flew all the way to _Russia. _We'll find him."

"I know," Steve sighed, pushing aside his empty coffee cup. "I just…Sam, I let him fall off that cliff and be captured and experimented on. I let him be brainwashed for seventy some years and now he's out there somewhere, no idea what century he's in, and with his memories almost entirely gone."

"Steve, you are in _no way _responsible for what those evil motherfuckers did to Bucky. You tried to save Bucky from falling and you saved him three days ago, just like he saved you from the river," Sam said, slamming his hand against the table and not caring that the other patrons of the bistro were blatantly staring at him in shock. The Russians already thought Americans were clinically insane, Sam saw little harm in it. "We _will_ find Bucky."

* * *

"Good morning, Joey!" greeted a bright voice in her ear. Joanna cringed at the volume, considering it was not yet six-thirty, and shifted the phone away. She promised to call her older sister back after their brief chat last night, their mom and dad having called mid-conversation. It seemed no member of her family was satisfied with being assured over text that Joanna was uninjured and her apartment still in one piece. (Except for her little brother, Jon, but then, she expected that.)

"Yeah, hi Jan," replied Joanna, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her free hand before opening her cupboard and beginning to hunt around for her weekday 'healthy' cereal. She still didn't know why she bothered with the Raisin Bran—overly sweeten cereal or not, she wasn't loosing any weight. "Why are you so energetic this morning?"

"I'm always this way about this time, I just finished my second cup of coffee," Janice replied. Joanna vaguely remembered Jan having a behemoth of a traveling thermos and she dearly hoped her sister wasn't referring to the whole of _that_ monstrosity when she said 'second cup of coffee.'

If she was, Joanna felt genuine sympathy for the fellow lawyers and clerks at Jan's law firm.

"Good to know, I'll avoid talking to you in the mornings in the future," replied Joanna with a laugh, retrieving a bowl from another cupboard.

Jan's signature huff was the response to this from the other end of the line. "You know, you just reminded me why I don't talk to _you _quite so often."

"Why is that?" questioned Joanna with a wide grin as she shook cereal into the bowl, surprised when the box wasn't as full as she remembered it being yesterday.

Her attention was diverted when Jan replied, "Because you're a complete brat!"

Joanna laughed at that, asking, "If I'm a brat, then what does that make you?"

"The older sister of a brat," Jan said, her voice holding a smile. "Oh, how's Hamilton doing? Did he like the stuffed bunny I sent him for Easter?"

"Yeah, he's spoiled rotten because of you," Joanna said, nudging the refrigerator door closed with her foot after she grabbed the milk. She glanced over at Hamilton, sitting in his second favorite spot above the sink, on the windowsill. He had a talent for finding the warmest, sunniest places to nap, even when it was an overcast day.

"Good, someone has to spoil him, especially when you're at work all the time!" Jan replied. Jan, who had adopted Hamilton when he was a kitten, had to give him to Jo when she got engaged to her now-husband. She always joked that was the one thing she wished she could change about Cory: being allergic to cats.

"And how's the man in your life doing, if we're talking about mine?" Joanna asked, finally sitting down to her cereal and orange juice.

"He's doing alright. He's on a business trip in New York right now that will land him a promotion if it goes well," Jan said.

"Really? That's great, Jan! Tell him I say congratulations," enthused Joanna, eating a spoonful of cereal.

"Yeah, well, we'll see. We _do_ need the extra money to finish these stupid renovations but we'll see," Jan replied, a sigh preceding her comment. Joanna frowned at her sister's tone, having heard it before when they both still lived at home and Jan was often melancholy about her chemistry grades, which seemed to refuse to go up, no matter how hard she tried.

"Is something the matter, Jan?" Joanna asked after a heavy moment, setting aside cereal spoon.

"No," Jan answered immediately before saying, "Well, its nothing to worry about. I just need to talk to Cory about it."

"What's 'it?'" Joanna prodded, knowing her sister well enough to know what she wouldn't explain further unless she was asked.

"I don't think I can talk about it right now, but I'll tell you later, okay?" Jan replied before continuing, not waiting for Joanna's reply, "I'm at work and I need to take a business call, so I'll talk to you later?"

"Sure thing, talk to you—" the line went dead "then." Joanna held her cellphone to her ear only a moment longer before moving it away, staring at the screen briefly before sighing and setting it aside. Hamilton meowed at her from his windowsill and she smiled wanly at him. "You're lucky you don't have any siblings, Hammy. They're confusing."

* * *

The secretary glared up at Sam and Steve through her horn-rimmed glasses, her red lips pressed tightly together. She was mumbling something under her breath in rapid succession, though what she was saying, neither of them could guess. "What is she saying?" Sam whispered to Steve, glancing over at his much taller friend.

Steve had assured Sam that Agent Hill—Sam was almost positive that was the lady that busted them out of the armored escort—had arranged an appointment to examine Soviet records regarding 'Department X—Operation: Blizzard.' Yet, when they presented themselves at the arranged time and place, the secretary seemed none too keen to allow them into the archives. Yet, considering that neither of them spoke Russian and she didn't speak English, it may have been a cultural miscommunication.

"I don't know," Steve replied, looking as lost as Sam. Turning back to the secretary, using ridiculous hand waving to convey his meaning, Steve tried again. "My name is Steve Rogers and this is Sam Wilson. We've made arrangements to come and examine—"

Before he could finish, one of the double doors behind the secretary's desk swung open, a dark haired, pale young man emerging. He spoke to the secretary in Russian, who responded readily, causing him to break into laughter. "That's very unfair of you, Anya!" the young man exclaimed, suddenly in English. "Pardon the confusion, Anya was only having a bit of fun. She can speak English perfectly fine."

"Sorry, boys," the secretary said, her face suddenly holding a smile that took ten years off of her appearance.

"Uh, that's alright, ma'am," Steve replied, noticing Sam shooting him annoyed glances out of the corner of his eye but refusing to acknowledge him for fear of making a bad impression.

"I'm Alexei Konstantinovich Volkov, head archivist. Agent Hill said you gentlemen were interested in researching Department X?" the young man continued, not allowing for any uncomfortable pauses.

"Yes, specifically Operation: Blizzard," Steve supplied.

"If you will follow me?" he asked, holding the door he had entered through open, motioning for them to precede him. Beyond the door were rows upon rows of files and artifacts—a library of past government and military records. "Operation Blizzard was one of the most extensive projects undertaken by the scientists of Department X. The whole of the department was dedicated to creating biological weapons that were superior to you, Mister Rogers."

"An alternate to the serum that made me into a super soldier?" Steve asked, just for clarification.

Alexei nodded, replying, "After the end of World War II, that's all Soviet Russians were really concerned with. Creating something that could combat the indestructible Captain America. The thought was that you weren't the only one, that there was a whole army of super soldiers."

"Captain America, Lieutenant America, Corporal America," Sam muttered.

Alexei chuckled at that, nodding, "Exactly. The scientists found a man with a missing arm and it was decided he'd serve as the primary subject." By that point, Alexei had reached about the middle of the rows of files, pulling down a thick, brown accordion folder. "The man received a bionic arm made of titanium and numerous procedures to enhance his genes."

"Do you know what this man's name was?" questioned Steve, his throat tight and making his voice hoarse.

Alexei shook his head. "No, he's only ever referred to as Subject B in the research notes," he replied, offering them the folder.

"B for Bucky?" Sam questioned in a low tone. Steve nodded shortly, accepting the folder that was offered to him.

Alexei led them back the way they had come, soon coming upon a table that, with a wave of his hand, urged them to join him at. "Subject B reportedly had amnesia when he first was brought in, but as he continued in the experiments and training as a super assassin, memories began to come back. It says that they administered electro-waves directly to his cranium." When Sam stared at him in question, Alexei clarified, "Brainwashing."

There had been notes of Bucky being subjected to brainwashing in the files Natasha had given him, but for Steve to see the old, black and white photographs of Bucky strapped to a high voltage chair, a helmet over his head wired with electrical cords, it suddenly was cold, sickening reality. A roiling, nauseous feeling suddenly began to climb from his stomach, the bile rising every time he looked at another photo in the folder. With a shudder, hurriedly slapping a hand over his mouth, Steve pushed away the accordion folder to Sam.

A moment later, when Steve swallowed down the bile, he asked lowly, "How did he stay young all these years?"

"Cryogenic stasis," Alexei replied, pulling the folder towards himself and extracting four pictures from it. Two photos were of an empty icebox-like coffin and the other two were of Bucky in it, his face visible through a circular glass window. "They would essentially 'wake him up' when someone needed to be assassinated, but, for the most part, he was stored on ice. It slowed the aging process and, according to the Soviet scientist's calculations, he only aged about two years, making him about twenty-six, biologically speaking."

Sam, who had continued to browse through the files after Alexei pulled the cryogenic stasis capsule photos from it, asked, "It looks like these records only go up to 1989; do you know what happened to Subject B after that?"

Alexei shook his head. "When it was obvious that the Soviet Union wasn't going to last, Department X was shut down. Most of the research and files ended up here but others got sold to the highest bidder. All we have concerning Subject B of Operation Blizzard is this." From the very last slot of the folder, Alexei pulled out a half sheet of aged, waxy paper. Sliding it across to the two men, they saw a large majority of the receipt—for that's what it was—was written in Cyrillic script. "It reads: 'purchase of Subject B, Codename: Winter Soldier, for five million USD by D. G. A Caballero.'"

Beneath was written in a similar hand to the signature 'D. G. A. Caballero' at the bottom right of the page, a brief note reading, 'This official documentation also guarantees the full release of all equipment, research, and training involved with Subject B. Violation to this agreement will result in immediate voiding of transaction.'

"And that's all we have concerning Operation Blizzard," said Alexei after a long moment. "I've scoured the archives, looking for any other leads that may be of use to you gentlemen, but I've been unsuccessful."

"Thank you Mister Volkov, you've been exceedingly helpful," replied Steve with a nod. "One last question: was Subject B the only subject of Operation Blizzard?"

"That I know of, yes," Alexei nodded. "All the other subjects, reportedly, died due to the stress of the experimenting."

* * *

"Come on, Jo, its Friday!" Liz begged.

"I am more than aware that its Friday, Liz," Joanna laughed as the two exited the Castle together, heading across the mall. "That's why I plan to stop at a Redbox on the way home, pick up a movie, and spend the end of the week from hell in total relaxation."

"You're so _boring_, Jo! You only ever want to stay home with your cat!" Liz complained, puffing out her cheeks, as she always did when she was trying to wheedle Joanna into doing something she wanted. Joanna often told her she resembled a puffer fish.

"I'll have you know that Hamilton is better than any guy I'm going to meet at the night clubs or bars you frequent on going to," Joanna replied.

"That doesn't change that he's a _cat, _Jo. When was the last time you had any kind of relationship or even _kissed_ a guy?" Liz asked, planting her hands on her hips.

"What's the point of trying to start a relationship in this town, anyway? All the attractive men are either interns, who are only here for maybe three months, or politicians who are bored of their trophy wives!" Joanna replied refusing to look at the glare Liz was giving her.

"Oh please," Liz scoffed, following Joanna for a moment, trying to think of a new way to convince Jo to go clubbing with her. "You know what your problem is?"

"What?" Joanna questioned in a bored tone, not bothering to glance at Liz over her shoulder.

"You're still not over that jerk you went out with during college, that's why you refuse to go try to meet other—"

Joanna halted abruptly and pivoted in nearly the same second, her purse whirling and crashing painfully into her side. She ignored it in favor of glaring at Liz. "This is _not_ about Mike and I can't _believe_ you'd bring him up! I'm just really tired from this hellish week and don't want to spend my night out being groped by drunk politicians!"

"They're not _all_ politicians," Liz offered sheepishly, her face growing a deep pink. She knew it wasn't right of her to bring up Joanna's one serious relationship that had ended when things had gone from bad to worse. It had taken nearly two years of them being close friends and working together for Joanna to divulge the full extent of _that_ disaster. When she had heard, Liz wanted to punch the guy square in the nose—and then in the groin for good measure—and she knew she wasn't the least bit justified in bringing him up.

Liz followed Joanna in silence for the rest of the walk across the mall, finally turning to look at her when they stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the pedestrian sign at Madison Drive. "Listen, Jo, that was really stupid of me to say. I'm really sorry."

Joanna didn't reply for a moment, only glancing at her, before she sighed. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have snapped. Its just that I _really _just want to go home right now."

"Yeah, alright," Liz nodded before pulling her into a hug. "I'll text you, okay?" Joanna nodded her agreement just as the traffic light changed and the pedestrian symbol blinked on. The two friends joined the flood of tourists and mall employees as they vied to get across before the light changed. On the opposite side, Liz turned left and Joanna right, both waving goodbye as they went.

* * *

It was a brisk walk back to Joanna's apartment on 4th Street, her only detour being the Redbox at the CVS Pharmacy, and she soon flopped down on her couch with a dramatic sigh, Hamilton voicing his protests from atop his favorite pile of pillows. She had the popcorn in the microwave, a Diet Pepsi with ice within arm's reach, and that new movie based off that one Nicholas Sparks novel in the DVD player; the perfect remedy to a horrible week.

The microwave beeped just as the main menu screen appeared, and she hurried to retrieve the popcorn, the melodramatic instrumental music providing her with theme music. Returning to the couch, Hamilton perking up at the smell of popcorn—he enjoyed the butter, mostly—there was a heavy knock from her door. With a long-suffering sigh, Joanna stood from her couch once more, taking the popcorn with her, and went to answer the door.

"Hey Jo," greeted Lukas as soon as she swung the door open.

"Oh, hey, Lukas; what's up?" Joanna replied with a faint grin, too tired to response much beyond that.

"I was wondering if you still had that—when did you move that vase over _there?_" he began to reply before looking past her to lift a brow at her apartment.

"What vase?" Joanna replied instinctively, glancing around her apartment. Her oriental vase—white porcelain with blue details—had been moved from its place on the end table, next to the armchair and window, to the lower shelf of the credenza. "Oh, huh. I don't know. I don't remember moving it."

"Well, move it back. The vase looks disproportionate there," Lukas replied, eyeing the vase's positioning like it had committed a serious insult against him.

"How did you notice that?" Joanna couldn't help asking.

Lukas just shrugged. "I'm an interior designer and I'm gay, it's just a superpower of mine." Joanna laughed at that, Lukas grinning at his own joke before he asked, "Now, I really meant to ask if you still have that wonderful bowtie pasta you made last week?" Once a month, Lukas invites all of the residences of the apartment building over for a pasta night, everyone to bring their own dish, which Joanna relished in. She adored pasta.

"Like the dried noodles?" questioned Joanna, already going to retrieve the half empty bag from her cupboard. "Yeah, you can have the rest. I didn't know you liked it that much," she continued as she returned with the pasta, handing it over to Lukas.

"Its delicious! And thank you, you're really saving my life over here. I'll get you a new bag when I go to the store tomorrow," Lukas thanked, grinning.

"Yeah, sure, no problem," replied Jo, returning his wave of farewell before closing her door and returning to her chick-flick, Hamilton curling up in the crook of her knees.

* * *

The Grand Kremlin stood like a specter over them as they navigated their way away from it, not seeming able to escape its shadows. They were following a map drawn and written on in Alexei Volkov's untidy but, nonetheless, decipherable English. Considering that Tony's handwriting was border lining on extraterrestrial, and Steve often had to read reports from him, the map they were currently using was written in calligraphy in comparison.

"It should be this warehouse up here," Steve said, pointing ahead of them to the looming brick building that sat diagonal to them at their current position at the intersection.

"What, that? That huge, scary, dilapidated, probably booby-trapped and haunted warehouse? _That_ warehouse?" Sam replied, squinting at the bordered-up windows and the ivy growing up the walls, frowning in disapproval. Steve glanced at him; this was a man who had completed two tours in Afghanistan, took down a heli-carrier, and flew around at a thousand feet above the earth with a pair of bat wings. It seemed ironic, to say the least, that what fazed him was a potentially 'haunted' warehouse.

Though even Steve would admit that the place was a bit discerning. Every building around it was shiny, new, and reached towards the blue skies far above them. In comparison, the warehouse was squat, dismal, and seemed to generate shadows and darkness from its every crevice. Steve frowned.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Sam asked as the two crossed the intersection, halting to wait to cross the other side, the warehouse looming over them more ominously than any of the skyscrapers.

"I mean, Mister Volkov circled the place in red," Steve replied, showing the map to Sam, who only huffed in response. "It probably just looks bad on the outside, Sam." They fell silence as the pedestrian single flashed and they hurried across the street, going to one of the padlocked doors of the warehouse. With a quick glance around the street, Steve took firm hold of the lock and gave it sharp twist, like he was using a corkscrew. With a 'pop' and 'clang' the padlock was suddenly sitting in Steve's hand, the rusted door squeaking open on hinges long since out of use.

"Shall we?" Steve questioned, holding the door open for Sam and motioning him forward.

"Do we have to?" Sam asked, staring in apprehension at the dim interior.

"We do."

Sam sighed heavily, knowing Steve was going to say that. "Well, let's _shall_." Sam gave him one last look before stepping over the threshold of the warehouse and into a tiled entrance hall, more customary to an office than a storage building. The pale green of the floors mixed with the peeling paint spoke of years of disuse—and bad interior decorating from the seventies—dust motes circling lazily in the sunlight that poured in through the cracks in the boarded windows.

"This place is certainly creepy enough to be the headquarters of some fucked up Soviet science shit," Sam commented, glancing around.

Steve didn't reply, instead retrieving a flashlight from his backpack and saying, "Mister Volkov said that the Operation Blizzard research rooms were on the second floor."

"Alright, lead on Nancy Drew," Sam replied, taking out his own flashlight, and following Steve in the direction of the staircase that wrapped up and away from the entrance hall. "Why do you think this place was disguised as a warehouse?" Sam questioned as they climbed the stairs, keeping a wary eye on the chipping marble and bits of crumbled ceiling on the steps.

"Top secret scientific research center? Having it plain sight would be like begging for American spies to infiltrate and destroy it, especially at the height of the Cold War," Steve replied, his voice low as they reached the top of the staircase, coming upon a hallway that was reminiscent of almost _every_ zombie video game Sam had ever played. He glanced around wearily.

"Yeah, now that you mention," Sam muttered as Steve led them down the hall, the walls lined with doors and windows that offered views of darkened—what appeared to be—surgeries. Silver, now tarnished, operation tables stood at the center, solitary testimonies to the sins of the past.

Finally, Steve halted in front of a series of rooms labeled in Cyrillic. He stared at the plaque for a long moment, the flashlight's beam glaring off of the metal, before saying, "I think this says 'Blizzard' in Russian?"

Peering around his friend's massive shoulder, Sam replied, "Yeah, I think so too. I recognize it from that folder."

Steve nodded, his face growing pensive. He stared at the door for only a moment long before, with a shove of his shoulders, the door came off its hinges with a loud crack. The noise seemed to echo to every corner of the building and, Sam thought, if there were zombies, _this _would be the exact moment when they'd all jump out and eat Steve and his' brains before they could even react.

No zombies appeared and Steve led the way into the first room, this one similar to the previous operation rooms. Flashing his light at the cupboards on the opposite side of the room, Sam caught glimpses of murky jars full of, what he fervently hoped weren't, human fingers, toes, and even a nose. Steve didn't seem to pay much attention to the collection of body fragments, instead going to another door, opposite the one they had entered in.

With a similar shove, this door, too, fell open and they were in a small gym. A punching bag hung in a corner, antique rifles and pistols adorned a wall, and weights scattered the floor. On the wall opposite the small armory was a yellowed photos of Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter, gaping holes in their craniums and chests from multiple bullet piercings.

"Looks like they were going to have the Winter Soldier assassinate Reagan and Carter before the plug was pulled," Sam noted. He, just as Steve did, refused to call the manipulated, brainwashed assassin by anything other than 'the Winter Soldier.' He was not Bucky. Bucky was somewhere, locked in his brain, but the Winter Soldier, the man that had target practice in this very room, was not James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve nodded mutely, his face unreadable. Without a word, he went to the door that stood, half obscured, in the corner of the room, shoving it open. Sam hurried after him, knowing Steve shouldn't be left alone to face what he feared the next room would hold.

It was larger than gym and, much like the operation room, only one thing stood at its center—solitary and menacing. It was a metal chair, exactly like the one in the photos Alexei had shown them—for, without a doubt, they were one in the same—with a helmet-like contraption were the head rest should be. Gruesome, exposed wires steamed from the helmet and the armrests and legs of were fixed with restraints. Dried blood, brown from age, spotted the floor immediately surrounding it.

"Oh my God," Steve breathed, staring at the chair. His whole frame visibly quaked before he fell onto his knees, his palms smacking onto the metal sheets that covered the floor. Sam stood, staring at the brainwashing chair, staring at the cryogenic stasis capsules that lined the opposite wall, staring at Captain America, on his hands and knees, and staring at his friend as he cried, not caring that his tears watered the floor. Not caring about anything. And then Sam took one step forward and placed a hand on Steve's shoulder, knowing that was really all he could do.

* * *

"Hamilton's been acting strange," observed Liz as she glanced over at the cat, currently sleeping on the armchair.

"What do you mean?" asked Joanna, raising an eyebrow as she dug her spoon into the carton of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. They had it situated between them, the romantic comedy they selected playing on Jo's screen but, for the most part, forgotten.

"I don't know, he's just friendlier than usual," Liz replied with a shrug, looking back at Joanna and seeing her raised brow. "Well, you know, Hammy doesn't usually like anyone besides you and he actually came over to be petted when I walked in."

"He's picky," Joanna replied with a shrug.

"I mean, he's a cat, he's _supposed_ to be picky. But cats don't just _suddenly_ decide to become friendly on their own," said Liz, though she shrugged, as if to metaphorically change the topic, and took another spoonful of Ben & Jerry's.

"Anyway, how did man hunting go last night?" asked Joanna, in way of showing that all was forgiven for the previous afternoon.

"Oh, excellent! I met this great guy, Peter from New York! He's really tall and dark-haired and _so cute_! You would have liked him, Jo," Liz gushed.

"I don't think so," Jo laughed in reply, "I'm more into the unattainable, gorgeous, and dead at least fifty years kind of guys."

Liz snorted in response before continuing, "Well, anyway, I got his number and I think we're going to go grab some coffee this week, sometime."

"Yeah, well, tell me if you think he's still cute when you're sober," Joanna teased, nearly choking on her ice cream due to laughing at her own joke.

Rolling her eyes, Liz replied, "Haha, you're _so_ funny."

Joanna shrugged before saying, "Where were you at last night?"

"Well I met Peter at The Eighteenth Amendment," Liz began.

"I still can't believe it's called that," Joanna mumbled.

Grinning, Liz continued, "And then afterward, we went to Schooner's."

"Isn't that the bar by the antique shop?" questioned Joanna. Usually, Schooner's was the bar that Liz frequented after drinking too much and dancing too long at one of the nightclubs. Rarely would Liz be able to persuade Joanna to accompany her to the bar, instead deciding to stagger home.

"Yeah, the one where you got your vase," Liz replied, glancing over at the end table by the armchair, arching an eyebrow when it wasn't there. "Did your vase break?"

"Huh?" Joanna said, her eyes quickly scanning the room to find that the vase was, once again, on the lower shelf of the credenza. "That's strange. It moved back."

"What?"

"Well, yesterday night, Lukas noticed that the vase had been moved from the end table to the credenza. I moved it back after he pointed it out, but the thing is, I'm almost positive I didn't move it in the first place and I didn't move it _this_ time either," Joanna explained.

Liz frowned. "That's really weird, Jo."

"I know!" Jo exclaimed before frowning. "And I noticed my cereal seems to be disappearing and the milk is almost gone, though I got a new galleon on Wednesday."

"You don't think someone is breaking in, do you?" Liz questioned, swiveling her head around.

"And what—moving the vase around? Nothing's gone besides food," Joanna replied, a frown on her face that Liz knew meant she was considering the possibility.

"Yeah, but whoever it is could just be living here while you're gone, like one of those hermits that stay in people's houses while they're on vacation," Liz said.

"You watch too many police dramas," Joanna mumbled in retort, her mouth now a hard line. "Do you…do you really think someone is breaking in?" Liz only offered a shrug and nod in response. "But, wouldn't I have noticed before now?"

"You're kind of oblivious, Jo. Luke was the one that had to point out the vase to you."

Joanna's spoon sunk from her mouth, the ice cream beginning to drip off as it melted, her eyebrows scrunched together and her eyes widening in horror. "Shit," she said, lowly before repeating, louder, "Shit! Ah, fuck shit, goddamn it!" At this point she was standing. "What can I do? Call the police? Fuck!"

"Well your evidence is missing cereal and milk and a moved vase," Liz reasoned. "That's really not enough definitive proof."

Joanna whirled on her. "_My house is being broken into, don't you tell me what is and isn't definitive proof."_

"Uh, okay," Liz replied, meekly.

"I can't believe," Joanna continued, her voice nearing a roar. "That someone has been in _my _house, eating my food, watching my t.v., sleeping in my bed, petting my cat—" she cut herself abruptly off, her eyes alighting on Hamilton, who still sat in the armchair, watching the scene unfold with a certain serenity only found in cats. "Wait a second."

Liz remained silent, waiting for whatever it was that had just occurred to Joanna.

"My cat," Joanna repeated before turning to look back at Liz. "Hamilton. Hamilton!"

"Yes, that is your cat's name," Liz replied after a moment.

"No, no, I mean, Hamilton isn't upset! He's been more happy than usual, in fact," Joanna explained. "And he wouldn't be that way if there was some stranger in the house during the day! _That's_ why I didn't notice, because Hamilton wasn't upset!"

"And your cat doesn't like anyone, so maybe no one is breaking in?" Liz offered.

"Well, yes, but…" Joanna trailed off. There was a long moment of thought before she continued, "There's only one person he's ever reacted _that_ warmly to, that I've seen."

"Who?" Liz prompted.

"Bucky Barnes."

* * *

"They'll be a car waiting for you two when you land," Agent Hill's voice said, Steve having called her when the pilot announced that the S.H.I.E.L.D. private jet would begin to make its descent into the Washington D.C. metropolitan area within the next twenty minutes.

"Great, thanks," Steve replied.

"Did you find anything out while you were over there?" Hill asked.

"Other than that the experiments and training that they subjected Bucky to was about as awful as we thought it was?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, other that," Hill replied, her voice sounding as awkward as an agent such as Maria Hill could sound.

"Well, we discovered that the Winter Soldier was primarily used as a Soviet biological weapon until 1989. Up until then, he was deployed on several missions that were to Hydra interests but it wasn't until someone named D. G. A. Caballero purchased him along with all equipment and information regarding him, that he became an official Hydra operant."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "Did you say Caballero?" Hill asked in a low tone.

Holding the phone away from his ear, Steve turned to Sam, asking, "The signature on that receipt was Caballero, right?" Sam nodded his confirmation, too engrossed in his game of 2048 to respond verbally. Pressing the phone back to his ear, Steve replied, "Affirmative: Caballero."

A muffled sound, no doubt a muttered string of curses, was the immediate reply before Hill said, "Thank you, Captain Rogers. And are there no leads to the current whereabouts of Bucky Barnes in Russia?"

"No, ma'am," Steve replied. "It doesn't look like Bucky has been there since he was sold off to this Caballero guy."

Another pause before Agent Hill said, "I'm sorry, Steve."

"I am too, Maria," Steve replied, a sigh gusting from him.

"Fury expects you and Wilson at the mall office within the hour," Hill said, her voice back to its usual briskness.

"Affirmative," Steve responded immediately before the line went dead. Steve clicked the 'end' button on his cellphone nonetheless, flipping the top screen down with a sharp snap and stowing it in his pocket.

Sam, whose attention was drawn by Steve snapping his phone shut, rolled his eyes, saying with a tone of disgust, "Dude, I get that you're ninety-five years old but, seriously, you _need_ a new phone."

* * *

Sundays were usually the hardest mornings for Joanna, mostly because she usually didn't have to wake up early very often. So, when she did, it was like Monday mornings, come again (which made the following morning like a second dose of pain). Yet, that morning, she rolled out of bed—she had washed the sheets the previous night with Liz's company—with a certain vivacity.

After the usual morning routine, Joanna dug into her odds and ends drawer, just next to the kitchen sink, fishing out a pen and an obnoxiously colored pad of sticky notes. Clicking the pen in thought for a brief moment, Joanna bent over the note, scribbling out a message before going to her vase. She had returned to its original spot the previous morning and now stuck the sticky note to it, depositing the rest of the pad and her pen onto the table next to the vase.

Smiling at her work, her whole motivation for getting out of bed, she slid her phone out of her trouser pocket. Her grin froze for only a moment on her face before she exclaimed, "Shit!" and made a mad dash for her purse and keys on the counter, shouting to Hamilton as he watched her go from the kitchen windowsill, "I'm going to be late, bye Hamilton!"

Hamilton twitched his whiskers when the door slammed behind his human. His green, orb-like eyes gazed at the door for a moment, as if he expected her to run back in to retrieve something that was forgotten—he was accustomed to her occasionally doing so—and, when it was apparent she wasn't returning, he stood from his windowsill. Stretching lavishly, if only to prove to anyone that may be observing him that he was in no rush, he jumped down and trotted over to the vase, curious at his human's odd behavior.

He blinked at the sticky note on the vase and, if Hamilton were a literate cat, he would have read, 'Good morning, Bucky! If you're going to move the vase, could you please move it back when you leave? Thanks, Joanna.'

But, because he was, indeed, a cat, he could not fathom the meaning of the neon yellow paper and instead just curled up on the armchair for a nap.

* * *

"On your left!" Steve shouted as he ran past. Considering that he was suffering from serious jet lag and that this was the first time Steve had lapped him, Sam didn't even bother replying, instead settling for a fierce glare fixed on Steve's back.

He wasn't really sure why he was out running before six in the morning—it really wasn't early for him, he had gotten into the habit of waking up at five to run after getting out of the military—especially when he was suffering from serious jet lag. Sam loved to travel, that was part of the reason that he joined the military (he just wished someone had told him that the only places he'd be seeing were deserts) except for the jet lag. It hit him like a train the morning after he got home. He'd set his alarm for his usual time, with every intention of getting back into the swing of his daily routine, and when his alarm went off, he'd just punch the clock and go right back to sleep. He'd broken about three of his alarm clocks that way.

He just about did that same exact thing that morning, only Steve was at his door three minutes after his alarm went off. It seemed like the guy had a sixth sense for when Sam was oversleeping. It was with no small amount of cursing and threatening that Sam finally agreed to pull on his track pants and shirt to go do a morning jog.

As he turned off the straight in front of the Lincoln Memorial, preparing to run back in the direction of the Capitol Building, Sam came up short. Steve was ahead on the path, stopped and staring rather intently at a man who was curled up, asleep, on a bench.

"Steve?" asked Sam, quietly, not wanting to startle neither his friend nor the homeless man on the bench.

Steve seemed transfixed for only a moment before his eyes snapped over to Sam, focusing on him. "Sam," he replied, his voice equally hushed. "It's…it's Bucky."

"Bucky?" questioned Sam, raising his eyebrows in surprise and glancing back over to the man on the bench, squinting at him. It took a few moments of studying to distinguish the sharp nose, the square jaw, and the dark brows from underneath the mass of scraggly brown hair, but finally, Sam knew it to be Bucky, too. "What should we do?"  
Steve spared a moment to frown before he approached the sleeping Bucky with careful steps, slowly sinking into a squat before his bench. With a gentle voice, as if Steve were speaking to an injured animal, he said, "Bucky? Wake up, Bucky. C'mon buddy, its time to wake—"

Before Steve could finish, Bucky's right arm, the bionic arm, if his file was correct, shot out, seizing Steve by his neck. Sam had only taken one step before Bucky was standing, holding Steve by the throat. Sam stared in wide-eyed shock, unsure of how to proceed or intervene.

"Bucky, its me, Steve," Steve said, not even trying to pry Bucky's hand off his neck, even though his voice was strangled and raspy. "I'm your friend, Bucky. Your friend, don't you remember? Brooklyn? We grew up together, Bucky." Steve knew that Bucky didn't really remember, that he still was the Winter Soldier before he was Bucky, but he knew he saw a spark of recognition on the face of man that was his friend. Something in his dark eyes stirred, his eyes focusing on his and that was enough.

He released Steve, the blond man landing neatly on his feet, not crumpling like most men would after they had been half strangled. Steve only rubbed his throat briefly before smiling at Bucky, saying, "It's good to see you again, Bucky."

The man stared at Steve for a moment, not even seeming to notice Sam's presence, and he slowly nodded. "I'm…I'm Bucky?"

"Yes, you're Bucky and you're my best friend," Steve replied, holding a hand out to him. "And I promise to help you get better."

Bucky stared at Steve's hand for one long moment. Sam and Steve could both clearly see the mistrust written on his face, born of years of abuse and manipulation and corruption, but they also saw that light of hope. It was the same spark that told Steve that Bucky _remembered_ his name and his face. It was a faint light that spoke of the desperate, small flame of hope that this time, unlike all the other times he was beaten and broken, that _this time _would be different.

That this time, he really would get better.

* * *

"He must be really beat if you were able to walk up to him like you did," Sam said in a low voice. Steve had managed to guide Bucky on the short walk from the mall to his apartment and settle him in the guest bedroom. Sam had shadowed them the whole way, though Bucky seemed so exhausted that he barely noticed when they were climbing the stairs up to Steve's apartment, his feet just automatically raising themselves and allowing him to climb.

Sam and Steve, though neither spoke of it, couldn't help but wonder if this was what Bucky had been like for the past seventy years, in a state of comatose when he was not assigned an assassination.

Steve shook his head in response to Sam. "I know." There was heavy silence that followed, Steve pouring Sam a coffee before he began to set about making his usual breakfast of eggs and bacon, making enough for Sam and Bucky, if he awoke.

It wasn't until Steve and Sam were sitting at the kitchen island that Steve spoke again, washing down a mouthful of eggs with a swig of orange juice, "He's really in a bad place. I mean, we knew that from everything we've found—how could he not be? But, it's…it's…"

"It's different to see it in person?" Sam provided, quietly.

"Yeah," Steve nodded. "That seems to be a trend over these past few days. Everything is so much worse in reality when it was horrible on paper in the first place."

Sam didn't offer a response to this; he _couldn't_ offer a response. There were so many things that he could have said, but he knew none of them were right. The pain that came with seeing a friend—someone who had grown up with him, had charged into battle with him, had bleed beside him—slipping away through his very fingers, with no idea how to rescue him, was clearly written across Steve's face. And Sam knew that feeling better than most.

Bucky wasn't a lost cause yet, Sam knew Steve wasn't giving up, but the pain was still raw at the sight of how lost Bucky was.

"Are you going to tell Fury?" Sam asked in lieu of directly responding.

"I probably should, shouldn't I?"

Sam nodded, taking a sip of coffee. "Yeah."

* * *

Before Steve could say much more than 'We found Bucky,' Fury had interrupted with a sharp bark that he was on his way. Steve wanted to tell him that calling wasn't an open invitation for a house call, but the line was already dead before he could open his mouth and Fury didn't pick up his phone when Steve attempted to call back nor did he answer his texts.

Now Steve, with Sam reclining on the sofa, watched the news at a low volume. Much to neither of their surprise, Matt Lauer, of the Today Show, was covering a further story on Potomac Incident. The screen was plastered with images of the former S.H.I.E.L.D building, no longer smoking but rather a great, steel lump at the center of the Potomac. The current topic regarding the disaster was Director Fury's death, which was being credited to the building's collapse. The irony of said Director of S.H.I.L.D. currently en route to the apartment was lost on neither Steve nor Sam.

"What's the cover story they came out with?" Sam questioned after a moment.

Steve shrugged, replying, "I don't know, I haven't really been paying too much attention to the news." Steve didn't need to explain why; Sam knew the reason. It was still too fresh, too raw, and with too many reminders of the Winter Soldier.

There was a moment of silence and then Steve's doorbell rang. Sighing, he went to answer it, not in the least bit surprised to find the one-eyed director on the other side, tapping his booted foot impatiently, as if Steve had kept waiting for hours. "Hey," Steve greeted simply. "Nice of you to use the door this time."

"Yeah, yeah," Fury muttered, obviously not in any mood to respond to Steve's remarks. Steve ushered him in, leading him to the kitchen island—the farthest place from Bucky's door that they could talk comfortably—Sam muting the television before joining them.

"Where did you find him?" Fury questioned without preamble.

"When we were on our morning run," Steve replied, indicating himself and Sam, though it was unnecessary. Fury kept tabs on them, even their usual jogging routes. "He was asleep on one of the benches near the Lincoln Memorial."

"Is he stable?"

Sam and Steve exchanged a glance. "No, sir," Steve finally replied. "He grabbed me by the throat and had me off the ground when I tried to wake him up. I talked him down and he relaxed enough for us to get him back here and to try to lie down in the guest room. We had to give him a key to lock his door from the inside though."

"Could he be transferred to a S.H.I.E.L.D. rehabilitation center if you were there?" Fury questioned after moment, processing Steve's report.

Steve immediately shook his head. "I would advise against it, sir. He's in a really bad place and I think the only thing he can really remember is me. The rest is just him running on instinct and locking him up in an institute that in anyway resembles the one we saw in Russia would be a really bad idea."

Fury didn't bother to argue against Steve's point; Steve had seen the rehab centers when he agreed to do a 'morale boosting' campaign and if he thought something would trigger Bucky, then he was right. "Well, we need to keep his survival hidden, Captain," Fury replied. "The media has caught wind of the Winter Soldier from all the footage of the battle. We tried to stop anything from leaking and all that the public knows is that a human weapon of mass destruction was working for Hydra, but we can't give them a chance to connect the dots."

"I completely agree, sir," Steve replied immediately.

"That being said, I will inform the other members of the Avengers team that you will be out of commission for the time being to help Barnes recover," Fury continued, only acknowledging Steve's agreement with a nod.

"But sir—" began Steve.

Fury interrupted before he could say much more, "And, you need time to recover too, Captain."

* * *

"You're really…_insane_. Like, mentally unstable. I'm actually really concerned for you," Liz said, staring at Joanna from across the table in the archive stacks. It had been a happily busy day—'happily' as it had gone quickly—and Joanna had been surprised to find Liz in the archive stacks when she returned from her last tour. Liz was more involved with the researching of the artifacts, not the cataloging of them, as Joanna was.

Joanna had texted Liz on her walk to work that morning, giving an account of her leaving the sticky note on the vase, and she hadn't had the opportunity to talk to her since. Now, Liz was fixing her with a worried look. "I mean, Jo, you're pretty sure this guy is breaking into your house, right?"

"Well, yeah," Joanna mumbled.

"And so you decide that _just because _he's James Buchanan Barnes, best friend of Captain America and who, by the way, is supposed to be seventy-five years _dead_, that's totally fine that he's in your apartment and you even leave him a cute little, flirty note!" Liz exclaimed. "Jo, I want you to meet guys but I don't think this is how you should go about it plus, its kind of psychotic."

Joanna didn't mention the fact that the master assassin Liz had mentioned and Bucky were possibly one in the same—she had a very strong feeling that would not help her case—and only huffed. "It's not _just because_ he's Bucky Barnes." Liz gave her a look and she sighed. "Yeah, okay, that's a really big reason why."

"I've seen the photos of him, Jo, I know he's like only second in hotness to the Cap himself but it doesn't change the fact that he's breaking in and living in your house, which is creepy with a capitol 'c.'"

"Hamilton likes him," Joanna reasoned.

"First of all, Hamilton is a cat, and second of all, he didn't like Mister Montessori, so I don't think he's the best judge of character," Liz replied. When Joanna had hosted the annual employee holiday party at her apartment last Christmas, Hamilton nearly clawed Todd Montessori's arm, who was the nicest—and perhaps most scattered brained—old man that any of them knew.

"Well, Mister Montessori _did_ say he likes dogs better than cats," Joanna reasoned.

"You have a demon cat, Jo," Liz replied, rolling her eyes. "But that's beside the point."

"Well, what am I supposed to do? Call the police and tell them that I think my apartment is being broken into by a man that's supposed to be seventy years dead?" questioned Jo, an eyebrow raised in question.

"It doesn't sound _half_ as crazy as just letting a seventy year dead guy stay in your apartment _just because _he looks like Bucky Barnes!" replied Liz, tossing her hands up in frustration.

"I know he's Bucky Barnes, Liz. There's no question about that," Joanna replied, resolutely.

Liz studied her for a moment, her eyebrows now nothing but a worried line on her forehead. "Fine," she sighed, shaking her head. "If you want to do something that is really fucking stupid, be my guest."

* * *

Sam had left before lunchtime, leaving Steve to pace restlessly around the apartment as quietly as he could. It was nearing six o'clock, Steve deciding he'd call and order pizza with extra sausage, olives, onions, and peppers—a favorite of Bucky's, though nothing compared to Luigi's Pizza Parlor in Brooklyn—when Bucky's door creaked open.

Steve startled for a moment, nearly dropping his cellphone in his shock, before he hastily pocketed the device, giving Bucky a warm smile. "Hey Buck, did you sleep well?"

Bucky's face clouded, as if he wasn't used to people asking him about himself, before he nodded shortly. He stood in the doorway of his room, not moving away from it—as if preparing to retreat back within—and remaining standing with a rigid stiffness. It was the same stiffness that Steve had seen during his training for the War, when the commanding officers would make the soldiers stand in the sweltering summer heat and dress them down in front of the whole company. When the soldiers were forced to stand absolutely still, the same stillness that dogged them through the rest of the War.

"Are you hungry? I was just about to order pizza," Steve said.

He seemed to be considering this for a long moment, his confusion clear at what a 'pizza' was, before he finally nodded. Steve mirrored his nod, retrieving his phone and making quick business of ordering from one of his favorite pizza joints, the cheerful girl on the phone promising him that his food would be delivered within the next twenty minutes.

After Steve had snapped his phone shut, wincing when Bucky jumped slightly in surprise, his hands tightening on the doorframe and his face becoming a hard line, Steve sheepishly stuffed the phone back into his pocket. He cleared his throat, his mind scrambling for something to say.

There were a million and one things he wanted to say, sorry being the most reoccurring word amongst them. But such a small word, only four letters and used for such commonplace things as spilling a glass of water, hardly did any justice to the apology that Bucky deserved. Sorry for not saving him from falling, sorry for not coming to find him, sorry for all the pain he endured, sorry for not being there, sorry for _everything. _Sorry. _Sorry. _He was just so incredibly, wholly _sorry_.

It was Bucky that spoke first. His mouth seemed to be struggling with the words, his face contorted at the strangeness of what came from his mouth, "So…you're Steve? You're my friend, right?"

Steve nodded earnestly. "We grew up together, Buck, in Brooklyn. I was a real shrimpy kid and you used to save me from the bigger boys on our street."

Bucky's brow, already furrowed, seemed to only draw inward more. He was silent for a long before he let out a gasp of pain, his metal arm detaching from the doorframe—Steve would later notice it was cracked—his real hand grasping at his shoulder, were the bionic arm was sewn onto him. A cold sweat seemed to prickle upon every inch of his skin, his face written with pain.

"I…I can't…I know you and…" Bucky muttered, though Steve knew he wasn't talking to him. He took a hesitant step forward, his eyes fixed on Bucky's terror stricken face "I've been out of cryo too long, I need to…I need to get ready for my…my…" he rambled, fervently massaging his shoulder and staring up at Steve blankly. He was regurgitating what he had heard for so long, the only phrase that was a constant in his shrouded, hazy memory.

"No, no, Bucky, you're not an assassin anymore," Steve replied, taking two hurried steps towards him before he could think. He stopped himself before he could move any closer, hyper aware that Bucky may bolt at any moment in the state he was in. He raised a calming hand to him.

Bucky, for his part, didn't seem to notice Steve's movement. He only repeated, "I've been out of cryo for too long, I need to be wiped, I have to prepare—" he cut himself off, his eyes alighting on Steve, as if he had only just noticed him. "I know you. How do I know you?" He paused before his face softened from the crazed look and he seemed to be reassuring himself now. "You're Steve. You're my friend, Bucky's friend."

"That's right, Buck, and I'm here to help you get better," Steve replied. Bucky didn't seem frightened or apprehensive to this statement, he simply looked at Steve and now, Steve knew without a doubt, that Bucky recognized him. He still rubbed at his shoulder, his mouth still twitched in pain, but the sweat had disappeared and his face was more similar to Bucky's than Steve had yet to see.

Bucky's only response was a nod before Steve motioned him over to sit on the couch, immediately going to fetch him a blanket—it was pretty chilly in Washington D.C. for spring.

* * *

Joanna leaned against her sink, glancing around her apartment with narrowed eyes, worrying her lip.

"Honey, you _need _to stop doing that; it makes you look like you just got done making out with some soul-sucking leech at the high school dance," Lukas said, glancing up from his mojito.

Joanna scowled at him briefly before replying, "I don't think he's been here for two days."

"Who?" Lukas asked before exclaiming, "Oh! Your imaginary boyfriend who you're letting break into your apartment?"

"Will you stop? You and Liz are beginning to sound like broken records," retorted Joanna.

"No, and Liz is a smart woman, you should listen to her," Lukas replied with a shrug, taking another sip of his mojito. "Anyway, seriously, Joanna. You need to call the cops, not worry that some psycho is _not _breaking into your apartment."

"I don't know if that's a good idea, Luke. I mean, why isn't he staying with Steve Rogers? Something's up, like he's running from something," Joanna replied.

"Yeah, like the police for breaking out of the criminal psycho ward," Lukas replied.

"Why doesn't anyone believe me that this guy really _is _Bucky Barnes?" Joanna questioned, exasperated.

"One," Lukas held up one finger. "His name's Bucky and who the fuck willingly calls themselves 'Bucky?'"

"It's short for 'James Buchanan,'" Joanna input. "Who was actually probably the—"

"No one cares!" interrupted Lukas before continuing, "Two, he's supposed to be dead and if he somehow survived, why hasn't the press eaten him alive yet?"

"Well, that's my point, something's wrong," Joanna replied, her voice more decisive.

"Listen, Jo, I say this because I care: if you don't call the police if you even _suspect _he's been back here, I will for you," Lukas replied.

Joanna frowned, knowing she wasn't going to persuade Lukas, so she replied, "Yeah, okay."

"Good, now give daddy another mojito and let me tell you about this _horrible_ woman I saw in Banana the other day—god, what a wreck!" exclaimed Lukas. Joanna did as she was told, letting herself become absorbed in tales of the rich, poorly dressed, and desperate women that came into the Banana Republic he managed, laughing away her worries about James Buchanan Barnes.

* * *

Steve had discovered a great deal about Bucky, and even himself, over the past three days. The first, and most important, being that it would be a very long time before it was Bucky—not the Winter Soldier—who shared his apartment. Unlike what he assumed, the persona that the Winter Soldier slipped into when he was not assigned on a mission, when he wasn't a ruthless and bloodthirsty assassin, was that of a meek child. He shied away from any sudden noises, obeyed any commands that Steve posed to him, and walked with quiet steps.

He had the sinking, sickening feeling that Bucky only saw him as another Hydra officer. Another person to follow the orders from, at risk of receiving violent retribution.

Steve made of a point of staying at the apartment as often as possible, ensuring that Bucky understood why he had to leave when he did. "I have to run out and get some more milk, Buck. Will you be okay here?" Steve would ask.

Buck would look up from the game of solitaire he had been playing—it had taken some digging in his drawers for Steve to find the deck of cards—and nod mutely. It was strange, of all games, Bucky remembered how to play solitaire despite Steve never having seem him play before the War.

"Would you like anything? Chocolate?" Steve would ask, giving Bucky a warm smile so he wouldn't feel as much pressure at the question, though still forcing him to choose. Bucky would always shake his head in refusal but Steve would buy him chocolate anyway; M&Ms, Buck's favorite. Steve remembered him eating two packages of them after they liberated the prisoner of war camp just to see what color his tongue would turn.

He would place the package of M&Ms on the table next to Bucky's solitaire game. Even though he began to expect it, Steve would still be disappointed when the package of candy would just sit on the table, untouched.

It was on the fourth afternoon after Steve and Sam found Bucky on the mall bench that Steve kept a watch on Bucky, who had grasped the concept of the television remote surprisingly quickly—far faster than Steve had—and was currently watching one of the on demand channels that only showed old cartoons, while he worked on lunch. Steve would not, by any means, claim to be any kind of culinary expert, but he still could make one of the best grill cheese sandwiches of any S.H.I.E.L.D. agent or Avenger, and he took pride in that. It was, perhaps, because he saw the value of putting butter on everything.

Just as Steve was plating the fourth, and last, grilled cheese, there was a loud and urgent knock at the door. Setting the plate aside, and switching off the stovetop, Steve frowned as he crossed over through the open kitchen-living room, going to answer the door. He kept a wary eye on Bucky, who froze at the sudden noise, his only movement to click the 'mute' button on the remote.

Steve could not fathom who would be at his door. Sam would have called ahead and Fury promised that no S.H.I.E.L.D. agent would appear at his door to whisk him away on a mission without some kind of warning—and that would be only if it was an Alpha status mission, seeing as Steve was unofficially decommissioned for the time being. Regretting not installing a peephole when he had the chance, Steve glanced over at Bucky, his hand on the doorknob.

"Hey, Buck, do you mind if I answer this?" Steve questioned.

Bucky stared at him for a moment before he shook his head, saying, "I don't mind."

Steve hesitated for only a moment before cracking the door open, peering out. There was a blur of something black and loud booming laugh, and before Steve could fully comprehend what had happened, the door had been shoved open and Tony Stark, Thor, Clint, and a reluctant Bruce Banner were all trouping into Steve's apartment.

"Steve-o!" greeted Tony, exuberantly, him being the black blur with his tee shirt that proudly proclaimed in purposefully faded print: 'AC/DC.' "Long time no see, bud."

"Hello, Captain of the realm of America! We have come to meet your comrade, who we have heard performed many admirable feats of courage and bravery," Thor boomed, his voice seeming to shake the very foundations of the apartment building with its boisterous volume.

"Hey Steve," Clint said, nonchalantly, while Bruce watched the scene unfold with that smile he had taken to wearing when he was well aware of the fact that he was only sane member of the group and was thoroughly appreciative of the fact.

"Oh, uh, hi," Steve managed to reply after a moment, his mind scrambling for a way to hustle them back out of the door, knowing their presence—especially the amiable, but towering, Thor—was too over whelming for Bucky.

"So, where is he? Where's the famous James Buchanan Barnes?" Tony question, rubbing his hands together in his eagerness.

At this, Steve finally turned back to look at his living room, his eyes widening. He barely registered Thor saying, "The man that is described as 'bucky.'" He was too focused on his living room window, the one situation behind his armchair, standing open, the curtains fluttering in the afternoon breeze.

Practically shoving Thor and Tony aside, Steve sprang across the room, hurtling over his sofa and shouldering aside the armchair, leaning as far out of the window as he could. "Bucky!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the surrounding buildings, carrying down the street. There was no reply, only a few, confused pedestrians glancing up to stare at the insane man shouting out of his window.

He was gone, disappeared, without a trace. Already escaped when Steve had only just found him.

Steve turned back to look at his friends and teammates, all of them staring at him in shock. He only shook his head.


End file.
